Fandom ♛ Liar's Court ♛ - A Game Of Thrones RP

Hypnos · Jan 12, 2020

Lannister

Hit. Parry. Hit. Parry. Hit.

Despite being hidden behind helmet and platemail, it was clear from the knight’s movements that he was sweating profusely, the temperate breeze of the autumn chill unable to provide sufficient relief beneath the hefty weight of his golden armour, shining in the early morning sun like a great glowing target. Inviting opposition. The knight was small. Too small for his armour, and certainly too small for his opponent who towered over him like a giant unassailable cliff-face, though what he lacked in physicality he clearly made up for in determination, the little golden knight gearing himself up for a charge, panting heavily as he did so. He was fast, no one could deny him that, closing the distance between himself and his foe with all the speed his little legs could muster, the force of the winds behind him as he held his sword aloft, preparing for a final strike.

Were that it was him.

Tygett Lannister clapped politely as he watched his son run face first into a pile of filth, the sheer momentum of the boy’s stampede enough to ensure a tripping long before he ever reached his opponent, falling to the floor with a clatter of muck and dust. He was resolute, Tygett had to give him that, but the boy had never quite learned his own strength, and had proven time and time again that he was not sure enough on his feet to have the makings of a good tourney knight. He wouldn’t learn though. He never learned.

Even as the boy attempted to pick himself up, it was clear that there was no hope of recovery, the larger knight standing steadfastly over him, ready to strike him down if he ever managed to claw his way back to his feet, though the armour was doing a solid job of keeping him pinned to the floor.

Tygett grinned.

It had been a long time since he himself had fought in his first melee, though he could still remember every moment of it. The thrill. The adrenaline. The struggle to maintain your dignity after you took a steel gauntlet to the face. His son didn’t know it yet, but tussling there in the dirt, he was learning a very valuable lesson.

Everyone falls on their face at some point.

‘And with Ser Joffrey Lannister down on the floor, that makes Ser Lewys Marbrand our victor!’

He could see Joffrey frowning as the announcer called his defeat, clearly indignant that he had not been given a chance to get a second wind, though Tygett could clearly tell that the match was over, if his son could not.

‘Joff’s made a fool of himself in front of the other boys, Tyg. You know he gets huffy when he loses. This whole thing was a mistake anyway, we’re so close to the capital, we could be sleeping in feather beds right now, instead of camped out, down here.’

Tygett grunted as he looked down at the visage of his wife, who clung to him, almost for support, her head resting in Tygett’s chest as she shielded her eyes from the makeshift tourney before her. ‘He needs to learn to take a loss. Even my father admits defeat on occasion.’

‘Even the great Cerion Lannister.’ Her voice was sour and sarcastic.

‘Besides. Our numbers are too numerous. They will not let us inside the city.’ It was true that the Lannister encampment was far too large to be reasonably hosted in the Red Keep, with over a score of Westerman Lords and thousands of their knights and retainers.

‘Then you should make them let you in. You’re a Lannister, dear husband, they could not stop you if they wanted to.’

‘My name would get us through the gates and all of the other lords would hate me for it. We could fill up every room in the Red Keep. Every tavern in the city would fly Lannister colours.’

‘Why do you care what they think, Tyg? They have your niece in chains. They’re going to kill her.’

‘They’re not going to kill Ashara.’ Tygett smiled reassuringly.

‘And how can you be so confident of that? How do you plan to save her if the jury votes on her guilt? If every lord in Westeros condemns her.’

‘We’re Lannisters.’ Tygett grinned. ‘They could not stop us if they wanted to.’

The raising songs of bards drowned out all further protests from his wife as Tygett watched the two knights in front of him set up for another round. Larger men, and less green than his own boy.

He was glad for the show, for it was enough to keep morale high in times like these, times when House Lannister needed their men to be sharp more than ever. Tygett was confident about this trial. Confident that it would only be a matter of time before they brought Ashara home to her mother. Afterall, no one wanted to face the wrath of House Lannister, and no one wanted to rouse the sleeping lion. Despite that, Tygett couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of worry festering in the back of his mind. No sane man would oppose them, but too long in the capital was certainly enough to make any man lose his wits. Not every lord was as honourable as those of the West.

‘Lord Lannister, there has been a disaster!’ Tygett frowned as the little man approached him.

‘Please, my father is not here. Just Tygett is fine.’

‘There’s been a disaster.’ Even when granted permission, the man was uneager to forgo titles. The lion’s shadow loomed large.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘The Blackwater has begun to flood. The camps on the westbank have begun to overrun.’

Tygett looked worried at that. He had advised those on the west bank of its safety himself, after examining only momentarily. ‘Is anyone hurt? Is anything damaged.’

‘No one is hurt my… Ser. But all of Lady Banefort’s possessions have been washed down the river.’

‘I see.’ Tygett gulped. ‘Bring Lady Banefort to me. I shall console her myself.’

Optimus Princeps
Suck a big one

TheFool

QuirkyAngel · Jan 12, 2020

Lady Judyth Umber

Vikings-Lagertha-Season-3-Official-Picture-vikings-tv-series-38232408-334-500.jpg

Judyth hugged her brothers, one at a time, enjoying the warmth of their large arms. Jon first, then Jarl. They’d grown since she’d last seen them. They looked older. More mature. More warrior-like—as young lords of the Last Hearth ought to be—with the large swords to accommodate their large sizes. But still. They were her brothers. Towering and menacing-looking they may be, they were still the same brats that pulled on her skirt whenever they were hungry in her eyes

She doubted that would ever change.

“It’s good to see you, Sis.” Jarl said as he released her. He was the shyer of the two. “We got your letter.”

“ A very good letter. Made Mum and Dad very happy."

“‘Specially Dad.”

“It’s the only reason he bothered coming at all, ya know.”

“How is he?” Judyth inquired.

“As fit as ever,” Jon laughed boisterously. “He’s convinced it’s all a bloody trick. A trap laid out by the Dragons to lure us down south. You know how he is. Can’t let the Starks die down here on their own.”

She did know her father. Therefore she wasn’t the least bit surprised when the door to his carriage came flying off, ripped from the hinges by a mighty kick even before poor Horig could reach it. Jogmund Umber wasn’t as tall as his sons, standing 6’5’’, but in Judyth’s opinion, he was far more intimidating. It was the air around him. His presence when he walked into the room with his large axe. His glare.

Rumor has it, Gunther Sunglass was cowed into submission when he gave away his eldest daughter to the Umber house.

Judyth watched her father silently march over to the Lord of Winterfell as if to be his shield in battle—scowling at any southern offender that dared approach (

Mion ). She couldn’t decide if she was more exasperated or amused. It was his first trip to the Red Keep as well. Along with her brothers. “Where’s Mother?”

“She’s staying behind to take care of Grandad Algard. He’s fallen ill.”

“ So it’s just us, Dad, Horig, and his son, Skagg.”

The news of Grandad Algard feeling unwell unsettled Judyth more than she let on. He’d always seemed so healthy despite his age—telling stories of giants greater than mountains living far beyond the Wall. She hoped it wasn’t a sign. “Are you sure that’s enough people? King’s Landing is a dangerous place.”

What with murderers and missing whores.

“Of course it is,” Jon boasted. “Dad, Jarl, and I are the best warriors house Umber has to offer.”

“Skagg’s become a excellent shot as well.”

“We’ll make sure not a hair of harm comes to Lord Stick-In-The-Mud Stark.”

“Or you, Sis.”

“Thank you,” Judyth kissed her brothers. “But I’m fine. I’d rather you take care of Father. Make sure you watch his flask, since Mother’s not here to do so. I know King’s Landing is new and exciting, but don’t go to any place where you can catch diseases either.”

Both boys nodded solemnly.

Judyth smiled. “Besides, Cousin Sera’s been taking excellent care me. You remember Lady Sera, right?”

“ ‘Lil Sera.”

“ ‘Lil Sheep Sera.”

Sera hid further behind her back and Judyth rolled her eyes. While Uncle Clint’s daughter had often followed her around whenever they visted the crownlands, the opposite could be said about her brothers, despite the kids being the same age. She couldn’t blame her cousin. Even as children, Jon and Jarl had been massive and, well, boys would be boys, especially around a girl they liked.

“Stop it,” Judyth said to her brothers while placing a protective hand on Sera. “Go to father. I’ll meet with him shortly.”

She spotted Amabel Blackwood exiting a carriage followed by Lyanna Manderly and Dorren Stark. The childhood friend, the betrothed, and the man in question—the Stark of Harrenhal. An interesting combination. Of all of them, she was the closest with Lyanna, as fellow women of trade and frequent trips to White Harbor meant frequent interactions with the Manderly family. Cley knew his business very well, but Judyth couldn’t deny that she enjoyed talking to Lyanna about her plans, trade routes, and avenues of investments more. There were some things that could only be understood between women.

That’s not to say she hadn’t met Blackwood or Stark at least once or twice. A Stark nameday celebration, perhaps? While she couldn’t remember every location and interaction she was certain of one thing. Her mother had been adamant about finding her husband and she’d met every eligible Stark male at least once—along with a good many unmarried Northern noblemen. Hence the nickname Spinster Umber came eventually came into existence. Though she couldn’t deny it was partly her own fault.

“Lady Lyanna!” The smile reached Judyth’s eyes as she approached the trio. “It’s good to see you here.”

She inclined her head towards Lady Blackwood and Lord Stark as well. “Lord Dorren and Lady Amabel as well. It’s been too long.”

A realization, along with an old rumor, crossed Judyth’s mind then—a rumor she’d thought dead along with the passing of the Blackwoods. Glancing at Amabel, Judyth wondered if she ought bring up the topic. Death hit everyone hard, though few could claim to lose their entire families as the young lady had. No. Judyth was simply fortunate. Loss was a part of life. Moving on was how one dealt with it.

“I’d just met with your betrothed, Lady Amabel. A man my father can appreciate.”

Height-wise at least.

Judyth wondered if she should’ve stayed and learned more, but standing with the bachelor prince for longer than a customary greeting would draw too much attention…and not the kind she wanted. She was here to do business, not make enemies with vicious women (or men) of the court. Besides, men tended to be less forthright with a woman present in the conversation so she doubted she’d learn too much—not that she really had a place in the ‘important talks’. Even her father, whom she stood beside (sword in hand) until her brothers came of age, took her gender into consideration when it came to certain conversations. Better to let them talk freely. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t listen in, of course.

“Though…every man comes with their own sort of charm and appreciation is in the eye of the beholder.”

Judyth glanced knowingly between Dorren and Lyanna, wanting to make clear her lack of opinion on the matter, before her eyes were drawn briefly to the young Tully Lord who planted a banner in a dramatic introduction and grabbed the prince of the Seven Kingdoms into a tight embrace. Judyth chuckled. Their closeness was something to take note of and she wondered if that would somehow affect the Queen’s trial.

“You’ll meet all kinds beyond the North. This is my cousin, Lady Sera Sunglass, by the way. She’s been a big help in easing me into the Red Keep.”

Connections, connections. Sera helped her meet people and she helped Sera. Equivalent exchange was how proper people do business. Though cheats and leeways were taken at times to get ahead, Judyth liked to stick to standards in most her dealings, especially with people she respected. No matter where she went or what she did, Judyth was still very much her father's daughter.

idalie

BELIAL.

dendygar

(mentioned:

TheFool

Braddington ,

RayPurchase

Yahhah )

TheFool · Jan 12, 2020

… The Prisoner

She sat, legs crossed. In dampness and in darkness. The only source of light being a simmering flame, whispering dangerous things. None as dangerous as her though. She was a murderer. Or lest the people would let you believe. Let her believe.
“Morning.”
She said. Her voice scratchy and hoarse. Lips dry. Tongue even drier. She hadn’t had water in several hours. Or had it been almost a full day? No. Yes. No -
She did not know.
“It’s morning.” She repeated. Her eyes scanning the pitch black of her confinements. Her cell. One of many below The Red Keep.
“Or is it night?” She asked herself. “The Gaoler has… he… did he come back from his break yet?” That was the only way she could try and tell the time of day here. Counting each break he took. And he took a lot of breaks. More so than any gaoler should take.

Ashara was not complaining, however.
The more breaks he took, the more of a chance she could have to go.
To escape.
She did not know how she would escape yet. But she knew she had to, at some point, try. Whether it was burrowing through the stone and dirt, or using all her might in breaking down the locked tight door. “That’s my only option at this point, isn’t it?”
She continued to talk to herself. She had gone mad. Least she thought she had. Hearing her own voice was one of the only things actually keeping her sane. Or even the only thing.

She scratched her knee.

Caked, still, in dried blood. She could not see it, but she could feel it. The murder was on her skin. Itching away at her, like a flesh eating insect had found its way into her.
Burrowing inside of her,
Like how she imagined burrowing out of this place. This wretched cell. “I need to…” She said. The back of her throat tickled.
She needed water.
As much as she needed freedom.

Ashara shut her eyes and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Like a toddler would so to sulk.

“Is he alright?” She wondered. Her boy. Was he fine? Was he still healthy? Diseased hadn’t swiftly taken him in the several something days she’d been locked up and locked away? If it had not, mayhaps the mob of people wanting her head on the pointiest pike had.
Torn the newborn baby to shreds, like old fabric.
Like Lucerys had done to her wedding gown.
She rolled her eyes.
They wouldn’t.
“They wouldn’t.”
They wouldn’t.
Lucerys did not have the love of anyone. Not his daughter nor his brother nor his council. And especially not the love of his people. He was Lucerys The Last. The nickname going hand in hand with where he ranked in public opinion. Still -

They wouldn’t.

Would they?

Kill her child. Kill her son after everything giving that boy life had meant for her. The smacks across the face. The beatings that would leave the reddest of marks upon her. The silencing and the constant shoving aside. The reminders that she did not matter -

That she was nothing.

Nothing but a babymaker.

The rape.

And how it would happen nightly. Or at least it did for the first month or so. Until she missed her moon and they told her she had done it. She was with child.

Ashara took her hand off of her knee and slammed it against the wall she lay against. The stone hard. Her hand stinging afterward. “Damn him.” She punched, once more. The sting increasing. “Damn him, damn him.” Again. The sharp pain now accompanied by wet.
“Damn his soul to the deepest hell.”
Again.
“Damn him!”
Her face was also wet.
Though with tears instead of blood. Salty tears. If she was desperate, she would have tried to drink them. Water was water, no?
Thirst was thirst.
Murder was murder.

She was a murderer.

Ha.

She was a lot of things.

She heard a hiss. One that wasn’t belonging to the flickering flame that hung outside her door. She stood up quickly and shambled towards the light. Towards the door. Her bleeding hand held between the thighs of her dress. “Hello?” Calling out.
Was the hissing that of another prisoner? One in an adjacent cell.
One who actually committed their crime.
One who would receive a clean beheading with the added dramatics of a trial. A trial where everyone already knew the verdict.
There was no surviving this, she thought.
She needed to escape.
“Hello?”
She called out, once more. Another hiss was the reply she received. She looked through the barred window. Letting her see the outside corridor.
Well,
‘See’ was not the right word. It was a vague view.
She could see the source of the hiss, however.

A white cat.

An old white cat.

It’s fur blotted with brown. Whether that was dirt or simply its pattern. The feline’s eyes were yellow and glowing. It hissed at her again.

“Hello, girl.”

She addressed it.
The cat.

“How did you g-”

It scurried off, out of her sight, before she could finish her sentence.

Gone.

Free.

That was it.

She had to get out now. For her sanity and for her sake.

And for her son.

dendygar · Jan 13, 2020

The Raven

The world seemed to be flitting and fluttering all around her, the breeze rustling the trees and beautiful flowers, wafting scents of food through the air.. it seemed more like a celebration than a trial. Something about it rubbed her the wrong way- as if this was some sort of show to spectate and gorge oneself on wine and meat. This was a trial, a woman could die and probably would.

Why was the atmosphere so light?

Chills ran up her spine. She remembered a trial happening at Raventree Hall as a little girl, if one could even consider it a 'trial'. A member of her father's council had been caught swindling money, and he was allowed to plead his case and try to exonerate himself. Her father was a just man, but not necessarily kind. The decision had been made to perform trial by combat, and the old man chose a champion to fight against her brother Braeden. He ended up losing, and was executed publicly.

She wasn't allowed to attend the fight or the execution. Her mother didn't want her to see such violence and gore at such a young age, even though Amabel had shot and gutted stag before. "It's not the same, little one." Her mother had stated. Since, Amabel had seen deaths and executions, and her mother was right.. it was so much worse.

Her obsidian eyes slid over to the Tully banner.

Judyth was wise about being forthcoming about meeting with her betrothed and having introduced herself to him in the proper manner. Amabel Blackwood was not someone to be enemies with. Although she had a pretty sturdy head on her shoulders, her rage was utterly blind and unadulterated. There was no telling what she was capable of when she was angered to that point, because nobody had lived to speak of it. There were rumors of torture under her reign of Raventree Hall, rumors of brutal beatings and moments of sheer insanity. Only some of those things were true. The torture? No. The beatings, the manic episodes during a drunken stupor? Yes, those were true.

More than once, Amabel had returned to Winterfell with bloodied knuckles and her hands in casts and bandages from breaking her fingers.

"You did?" She asked and her brows quirked up.

I do not know your father, nor his standards. She wanted to bite, her nerves bringing out some of the worst parts of her personality.

Amabel looked passed Judyth and saw the Baratheon banners flying high. They weren't really flying.. the breeze had gone still, and a cloud passed over the sun. How in the world had she even managed to get matched with a Baratheon? Granted the second son, a year her junior.. Her father had been long-time friends and allies to the Baratheon's even though they were not their leige lords.

Amabel gave a small smile at imagining the meeting.

She had been what, fourteen when she had been betrothed? Shortly before her father passed. It must have been a meeting over mead.

Her eyes slid back over to the blonde, the stark opposite of herself. Fair haired, fair-eyed, sweet voice.. Probably liked sewing and singing and dancing. A woman that any man would have wanted, probably the type of woman her betrothed had wanted. Jon was in for a surprise, pleasant or not. Amabel liked drinking, liked eating, like training and hunting and battle. She had a bloodthirst, no matter how much she wanted to deny it. "He's tall?" She remembered hearing that- he was very tall. Amabel was somewhat tall as well, standing at 5'10. She'd inherited her father's stature, her brothers had been 6'1 and 6'3. Gods rest them, all of them.

Amabel gave her a small, nervous smile.

She stood by as Judyth spoke to Lyanna, her eyes wandering back and forth between the two, before turning her head and staring at the Baratheon banners once more. Ormund and Jon. Amabel Baratheon. She felt a chill run up her spine again, her brows twitching together. Amabel would have to bear his children.. could she even be a good mother?

Would he be a good father?

Her mother was the soft and nurturing type, always holding her children's hands and coaching them through the softer parts of life.

Amabel knew she hadn't inherited any of those traits. She was detached and distant, and children made her itch.

She then tried recalling Judyth's brother's names, her father's name.

Weren't they named like savages? The Northern savages, beyond the wall? Skagg? Gods, what kind of name was that? She looked back at the two women and her cousin, making a rather disgusted look and staring at Dorren.

She doubted he would understand what she was thinking of.

"I-" Amabel began to say, but she couldn't get a word in.

She clamped her mouth shut and set her square jaw, continuing to look at Dorren.

I would like to get inside. I would very much like seeing my chambers and getting these god forsaken slippers off.

There was plenty of time to get through pleasantries, and she just wanted to get this done with. If it was up to her, she wouldn't have come.

She remembered some wisdom Conran had imparted on her, "We don't always want to do what we do, but we do them because it is right." She mouthed to herself and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, relaxing her shoulders. Her dress was a deep, dark color. A woman in mourning- and she planned on wearing such colors for the rest of her life. Hopefully it wouldn't throw Jon off.

But Amabel's stark alabaster skin and dark eyes with their circles beneath were pretty stark enough as it was. The sharp contrast between her raven hair and skin, and the dress to top it off. The Blackwood was suddenly painfully aware of how she looked, and she'd wished that she'd changed or wore some sort of flowers in her hair. She reached up and subtly began to pinch her cheeks and rub her lips together, trying to bring some sort of color to herself to make her look a little less ghostly. "I'm going to introduce myself to my future husband." She spoke during a pause in the conversation. She knew that they were going to be there for a minute.

And just like Dorren, she wasn't one for conversation. "It was wonderful speaking with you, Judyth. I will to see you again soon, please say hello to your family for me." She smiled with her mouth, but not her eyes. Turning away, she kept the grin, but as soon as her back was turned, it changed to a dark and stormy expression. She straightened her back and smoothed her skirts, passing through the crowds of people and following the way to the banners, which she kept her dark hypnotic eyes on. I'm so close. Her heart was pounding, she could feel her ears starting to redden. All that was left was to turn a corner, and she would lay her eyes on him for the first time. The start of the rest of her life was about to begin, in three, two.. one..

She turned around the corner, the breeze suddenly picking up as if by a supernatural accord. Amabel felt like freezing in place, but her feet kept carrying her. Smile, you wench. Smile! There was no mistaking who she was, the cloak of feathers tucked around her shoulders to protect her from the breeze. Finally getting to them, she curtsied to the men and kept her head bowed in respect, a little bit of cleavage showing naturally because of her dress and boning pressing against her skin inside. "My lords," She said softly, before straightening and looking up at Jon. He was beautiful, and she felt as though she had been dazzled and punched in the gut at the same time. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Mentions:

TheFool

BELIAL. · Jan 13, 2020

Lyanna Manderly
The Lady of White Harbor

location: Kings Landing

with: Dorren S

tags:

idalie

QuirkyAngel

“Lady Lyanna!” came a voice, all too familiar. Lyanna’s gaze focused in on the approaching form of Judyth Umber. Upon recognition a smile bloomed out of her face, as anything that reminded her of home was welcome to the woman. In the back of her mind she envied Judyth for being more free in her pursuits. Lyanna hadn’t ever thought of what it would be like to sail away, or to helm her own ship-- but the idea of it was almost as thrilling as a hike through the woods.

“It’s lovely to see you Judyth,” Lyanna said, and gave a brief dip of the head at the presence of the other woman. Related? Maybe.

Her gaze slipped cautiously to Amabel, gauging her reaction. She narrowed her eyes in thought but said nothing. Indeed, it was a wonder how a house in a completely different region would be able to procure such an engagement to a Great house in the Stormlands. Where was the method behind it? Amabel was the last of her house, or at least the last of her lord father’s legal blood.

Perhaps with the help of Judyth, the connections that both women could retrieve in their places of trade Amabel could reclaim her home. Or, perhaps she enjoyed wearing different colors. A raven dressed as a stag. It was almost comedic.

“Lady Sera is it? I wonder if you can be a welcoming hand for all of us fish out of water here,” she offered a light laugh, purely conversational. Her head turned to Judyth. “You’ve met with your family? It’d be a sight to see your brothers try and fight through a door at the same time, as big as the Red Keep may be.” She offered a cheeky grin, and looked over to Dorren. Reassurance, or maybe to include him. It’d be easy to close off and live in her little world, but she was trying to avoid that. As daunting as the idea was to be a wife with no ledgers to keep track of or wages to count out, she was willing to show Dorren as many times as it took that she was a capable ally. A partner beyond her station as a woman. Harrenhal could be theirs… if the idea wasn’t so scary.

Lyanna caught the gaze that Amabel gave to her cousin, something like a petulant toddler. She seemed vastly uncomfortable. Did she need a change in attire? A walk around to stretch her legs? “I’m going to introduce myself to my husband,” she declared almost causing Lyanna to whip her head back. Is she mad?. Lyanna looked around, trying to spy where Amabel had made her mission to head to. The baratheon flags were stark yellow, even in the shade. Following them down she saw the bearded figures, assuming they were the men in question, and they were talking to the Prince. It had to be him. Amabel was heading there? Alone?

Her blue eyes hardened, head snapping to Dorren. She gave him a nudge. They had a connection, and she prayed he understood her. She’s going alone, and if she has a fit she’d going to make a fool of herself. We’ve got to do something.

She’d whisper it in his ear if he needed the extra invitation. It was important that they do it together.

She turned a bit red and addressed the women. “Forgive us but we’ve to attend to… that. We’ll speak later definitely. It’s a pleasure Lady Sera, and as always good to see you Lady Judyth.”

Snatching Dorren’s sleeve, Lyanna gave a low curtsy and then carted her betrothed with her. She shook her head. “I can’t say I know many things of courtly etiquette but I know enough tact. Am I mad for thinking this? Are we two heads of this three headed catastrophe if we barge in with her?” She began to twist her ring again, tapping her wrist every third time. She stared at Dorren.

“Tell me I’m right. Right?”

codedbycrucialstar

Optimus Princeps · Jan 13, 2020

Luthor Tyrell
Reunited

Between the consistent ramble of the guest hall, Luthor Tyrell found him not wanting when it came to a distraction. Daemon Yelshire pried at his ear with insistent rumors and the most obtuse flattery one could receive. Ser Steffon Grimm remained still, adding only a few choice sentences to any conversation, though they had the flavor to revolutionize Yelshire’s subject matter, whipping the lord into a fervor with passion practically leaking from his pores.

A few ladies, lords and knights made polite conversation, but were quick to move on from Luthor. His own smile, thin and kind, his most typical answer to them. When his partners relied on Luthor to carry a conversation, the newly appointed Lord Paramount found himself unprepared to carry such a burden. He was unaware of their lands, their spouses, or their children, besides perhaps the most distinguished of Houses’. From decades of experience in the Faith, Luthor knew that derailing a polite conversation to bring up the interesting facts of his former profession would do little to entertain as well. ‘Why, Lord Yelshire, did you know that the Day of the Dove came about as a means to end wars between pious kingdoms? Before even the Conquest, it was a clever tool in the hands of the septons to stop the bloodshed between the many kings of Westeros.’

He could feel Yelshire roll his eyes and give a roundabout statement on how wise Luthor was to know such information. Maybe Ser Grimm would be amused, but the knight was rather at home, standing silent and away from the greater nobility. The fresh Lord of the Reach doubted he’d engage Luthor in much conversation.

His musings were cut short as a younger man approached, wearing his wealth on him, Luthor stood at attention and bowed his head reflectively, a sign of respect to seniors in the Faith that proved a difficult habit to snap from. “Yes, Lord…”

“Lord Damon Redwyne!” Yelshire chirped from behind him, “A pleasure to see you again,” The lesser Lord gave a knowing smile to Luthor.

“Forgive me, Lord Redwyne.” Tyrell paused mid head-bow, puzzling for an answer that would satiate this man’s curiosity. “It was refreshing,” Was it? No, it was marked with tension and gnarled seas from passing storms. “It has been many years since I’ve been to our esteemed capital, and I dare say I’ve never stepped foot in the Dragon’s Den before.” His smile returned, small, kind, but uninviting. “It was very fortunate we made such speed on the seas. I hear many saying it’s unfounded.”

Tyrell paused, rocking on his heels, “And you, Lord Damon? I gather that you must be excited to be here as well? The Arbor must demand a great many things from you, making travel difficult.” Would it? How hard was it to tell others to watch the grapes and apples grow, then to commission twenty new vessels a year?

Before Tyrell could parrot out any other pleasantries that Lord Redwyne no doubt heard a dozen times in this single day, yet alone a life time, a new figure approached with a hurried yet tired gait. An older man, suited nicely in fine dressing and grey of hair. He looked haggard, as if he’d seen too many Winter’s and was ready for a final season somewhere warm. He seemed intent on approaching the two lords, making his rank high. ‘The steward, perhaps?’ It was equally possible to be a member of the Small Council or close ally to the Crown. Luthor wasn’t well versed on many names or faces, but assuredly Little Dick wouldn’t send an errand boy to see to his own brother? ‘At least not while a dozen Reachlords are surrounding me.’

As the old man approached, Luthor resisted bowing his head, waiting for what news Little Dick would have for him.

‘Brother. Lord Redwyne.’

The noise flittered to his ears. This… Old man, tired and lonesome, was Rickard Tyrell? His younger brother? Grey of hair and balding? Luthor himself was going through a similar crisis, but his hair remained dominantly brown, a dark one at that with few slivers of silver hiding in his facial hair. Yet, somehow, his little brother looked…

‘Ancient.’ Luthor thought grimly.

His reaction was immediate, and Lord Tyrell fought to restrain himself. His lips parted in surprise and his eyes crinkled in confusion. His torso veered back, as if afraid this weak looking man would strike him. ‘Weak.’ Luthor thought, ‘Feeble.. Yet a lord. Yet the Hand.’ Whereas Lord Tyrell was still lean, comfortable in body if not giving in to the endless march of time, his brother had been a victim to it. Despite being seven years Luthor’s minor, their ages could’ve been swapped and a bystander would bat no eye at the change.

What had happened in their life time apart to warp Rickard so? Luthor recalled the young boy who he shared much of his youth with, energetic if anything. ‘And now he is a mug of ale, though drained of its ichor.’

His silence persisted for seconds too long, and he cleared his throat. “Litt—Lord Rickard.” Luthor spoke, his features relaxing, setting into a neutral visage. “It’s… Good to see you again. You seem to be doing quite well, by your.. State of dress.” His eyes crinkled once again with his statement, unsure of what else to say, where to veer this conversation into. Confusion flooded his mind as he tried to match the face of a twelve year old boy onto the old man before him, and failed to do so. “We. Ah, rooms. Yes. I believe we need rooms, right Lord Redwyne?”

Luthor turned to his newest associate in the hopes that Damon had something to say, to distract from Luthor’s open confusion. ‘Time has made us strangers.’

Interactions:

Yarrow

Hypnos

Yarrow · Jan 14, 2020

Damon Redwyne

Damon instantly regretted sitting down next to Luthor Tyrell. He could have guessed that Lord Tyrell was surrounded by lesser Reach Lords. Everyone wanted to show their best side to their new overlord. Lord Yelshire was of a whole other level. The man was the most irritating of the Reach Lords. On multiple occasions he offered Damon to marry one of his sisters or daughters. Damon had always declined, since his daughters weren’t mothers brightest.

Damon notices the slightest hesitation when Lord Tyrell adressed him. The man must have a hard time, trying to remember all the lords of the Reach. He could probably remember his father, Paxter Redwyne, who would have been the same age as Luthor. Luckily for Luthor, Lord Yelshire recognized him immediatly. Damon looked over to the lesser Lord

“Oh yes, greetings Lord Yelshire, how are you daughters?” Damon asked. He was not interested at all, but Damon tried to be polite as always. However, if you were a good listener you could hear the sarcasm in the question.

Damon listened to the answer of Lord Luthor. The man must love the seas or was a good liar. Damon decided to play open hand with Luthor,

“Me? I hated it. My twinbrother would love it, but me? No, I’d rather stay on the Arbor.”

Luthor also asked about his demanding work at the Arbor. It wasn’t that demanding, since the Iron Islanders hadn’t raided their lands for two decades. Damon looked around

“Oh, please don’t tell anyone that I hate the sea, it’s quite unusual for a Lord of the Arbor to dislike the sea” Damon grinned

“And as work for the Arbor, telling people to grow grapes isn’t that hard, but finding good trade deals these days is, especially since the Celtigars are controlling everything. Luckily for us and the Shield Islanders, the Iron Islanders haven’t been raiding our lands” Damon mentioned it to remind Luthor of the importance of their fleet

“I’ve been trying to get the Shield Islanders to strenghten their defences, but Lord Grimm doesn’t think it is necessary” Damon smiled grimly. He would have wanted to talk to Lord Luthor more, Luthor seemed to be a wise man unlike the most other Reach Lords who think with their dick and muscles, but their time was cut short by the Lord Hand himself. As the Lord Hand introduced himself to them Damon saw the same confusion in Luthors eyes as before. The introduction from Luthors side was weak, not as you would expect from Lord Paramouth of the Reach, but Luthor wasn’t an ordinary Lord.

Damon didn’t knew Lord Rickard that well, but they met during the times Damon visited his twinbrother. Damon looked quickly to Lord Luthor and decided to step in

“Ah yes, Rooms. I am not sure if my twinbrother, Master of Ships, had reserved any rooms for my mother or me, but I won’t stay at that ships that brought us here” Damon laughed,

“But between us, Lord Rickard, I heard Lord Yelshire and Grimm would love to discover the city and enjoy it’s pleasantries.” Damon hoped Lord Yelshire wouldn’t here him, but what if he did? It wouldn’t matter.

“Have you seen him lately?” Damon asked Rickard Tyrell,

“My brother Jason I mean? Has he been of annoyance lately?” Damon steered the conversation away from the awkwardness between Luthor and Rickard.

Hypnos

Optimus Princeps

TheFool · Jan 14, 2020

Thirst

In dampness.
In darkness.

She thought, clutching her injury. The blood had, thankfully, stopped. Though the hand - her hand - panged. Equally as much as her tummy did, craving for something of sweet sustenance. Not as much as her mouth did, thirsting for it…
Water. Cool and clear. She felt her body shake as she thought of it sliding down her throat. She found herself laughing, slightly. Who would’ve guessed, several months ago, that she would be sitting here dreaming of water. Something she always had on demand. She clicked two fingers ( on the hand that did not hurt, of course ),
“Fetch me a jug of it, Jeyne.”
She scoffed.
“And pour yourself a cup of it too.”
She sat back down on the cot.

Silence.

A deafening one. With not one response to entertain her, nor to comfort her. Like how there was no water, there was also no Jeyne. She thought back to how they’d play. Sitting in Ashara’s quarters. Pretending.
Pretending that they were the snobbiest ladies in all of The Red Keep.
Even more so than Lady Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra.
And laughing at it.
“I will have the richest Arbor Red,” Jeyne would giggle. “Only so to wash down this perfect pigeon pie.”
Ashara fell back in stitches,
“Oh, how delectable!”
The room filled with their laughter, their delight. Their joy. The joy of two young girls enjoying one another’s company. Carefree. And if not carefree, pushing their cares to the side so to young. To be happy. Ser Renfred would join them at times - playing the role of the bumbling knight. Loyal to a fault. He’d kneel with every word, barely hiding his grin. He’d steal a lemon cake and mockingly beg of them to not throw him in the blackest of the black cells.
Funny.
“I still cannot believe it.” Jeyne said, one afternoon. Unpacking Ashara’s clothing, still.
Ashara lay on her bed, tracing her finger over the quilt and its floral patterns.
“What?”
“You’re going to be Queen.” Jeyne was wide eyed.
“That’s your going to be Queen, your grace.” Ashara corrected, intentionally being annoying.
Jeyne flung an undergarment at her,
“No, your grace, I cannot call you that just yet.”
Ashara sat up and climbed off of the bed,
“Off with your head so!”
She playfully ran at Jeyne and tickled the back of her neck. “Stop it, Ash!” Jeyne said, giggling once more. The two fell against the vanity, causing the trunk of clothing to be pushed off. It landing on the floor with a loud thud. “Oh no,”
Jeyne pulled away from Ashara’s tickle. Bending down to pick all of the silks and wools and satins up. Dozens and dozens. Coloured blues and whites and creams and pinks. A bit of red, for her mother and her house. Ashara helped, bending down also.
Picking up a pair of beige riding boots that had been stuffed into the trunk. A gift from her uncle Ethan, she thought. She could not quite remember.
“My lady.”
Jeyne spoke. Stopping.
Ashara admired the boots,
“Yes, cousin?”
Jeyne was quiet.
Her face showing no emotion.
“What if… what if he…”
“What if he what? Who?”
Ashara was puzzled.
“What if -” Jeyne continued. “ What if he does not like you? King Lucerys, I mean. What if he does with you what he did to the previous two?”
The previous two Queens.
Ashara stood up, boots still in hand. She leant over and gave her cousin a kiss on the top of her head. “He will like me.”
“How do you know that?” Jeyne asked.
Ashara put the boots down on the floor and stepped into them. Her bare feet feeling strange against the cow skin. Once they were on, she lifted her leg high into the air, so to show it off.
“Sure, what’s not to like?”
Ashara said. Wiggling the foot. She smiled, widely. Which, in turn, caused Jeyne to smile. They began to laugh once more. A chorus of joy, and of innocence. Two girls - both - of seven and ten. Both unaware of what was to come before the year was done.

The giggling died,

And Ashara was back. In grim and in blackness. Lonely once more. Friendless. And bootless. She looked down at where her feet should have been, squinting to see them. Using her healthy hand to touch them - so to make sure they were not stolen from her during slumber.
They felt dirty.
Filth and soot attacking her fingers as she felt.
She raised her leg high.
Wiggling her foot around. “What’s not to like…” She whispered.
Voice dead and dry.
She put her head back, leaning against the wall. Hard and stoney. It reminded her, oddly, of home. Of The Eyrie. Except The Eyrie did not smell like this.
Nor make her feel the way she was feeling. The Eyrie did not make her want to punch its stone and weep. The hand pained her.
Sharply.
“Mother, help me…”
She begged.
“Please.”

A noise.

This time not the hiss of a cat. No, this was the sound of a door unlocking. A loud clinking of the locks, followed by the creak of hinges. It was not her door, no. It was the door leading into the corridor outside. It must have been. She was not aware of any other prisoners down in this part of the black cells. She heard it…
A voice.
Two voices. Quietly conversing, before the door they entered slammed shut.
She shook.
Listening carefully to the footsteps.
Getting closer and closer.
Was it time?
Time for the trial, or had they decided to do away with such trivialities - and take her head from her body immediately. Mayhaps they’d even forgo a public execution. Do it to her right here - right now. No,
They would not do her such kindness.
She was sure that her crime was being made a spectacle. If they were to kill her, they would do it in front of thousands. Thousands of jeering nobles and peasantry alike. Heckling, wielding fresh produce…
Ready to throw.
“Here.”
One of the voices said. The footsteps stopping, suddenly.
They were outside her door - she could see them through the thin metal bars. Two shadows. “Thank you.” A voice, one that dripped with familiarity.
She knew who it was.
Her chest tightened.
He hand panged.
“Three minutes. No the more an’ no the less. That’s it, got it boy?” The other voice said, stern. That voice belonged to the gaolar, she thought. Had he returned from his everlasting break?
“I am a knight. Not a boy.”
The gaolar spat, “No one is a knight down here in the black cells.”

A quiet.

“Ser.”
The gaolar finished. Begrudgingly.

“Three minutes.”
The familiar voice spoke, in agreeance.

She heard the rumble. Her locks opening. It took a few moments, but they were opening. Maybe this was her chance? Make a run for it. Mayhaps that was what Ser Renfred Broome was here for? To put the gaolar in his place and smuggle her out of the city -
Bringing her back home.
Back To The Vale.
To The Eyrie.

The door opened and Ser Renfred stepped in. Looking as gallant as ever. She felt her eyes well with tears again. Her heart beating like a ringing bell. “Renfred…”
Was all she managed.
The door closed behind him. He looked at her through the faint torchlight he wielded. He hung it onto an old iron pivot in the wall, where torches were to be held ( if the black cells were not indeed the black cells ). Once it was hung, the cell glimmered orange.
She could finally see what it looked like.
And,
It was somehow more of a shithole than she imagined.
She stood up and rushed over to him.
To her knight.
The man who pledged his sword and his shield to her.
He put his arms out,
So to take her into him.

The embrace went on for…
What Ashara felt was hours. Hours and hours, fit right into three minutes.

“Please…”
She began. “Tell me you’re here to rescue me, Renfred. Tell me my mother and father are waiting down that corridor - ready to usher me from this h-horrid place.”
She wept.
He tightened his arms around her, pulling her face into his chestplate. “That I wish, your grace.”
His answer devastated her,
Even though she knew her hopes were too high. Higher than honour. He let her go and smiled at her. A sad smile. His eyes vacant looking.
“I have this for you though.” He told her, taking out drinking skin and a loaf of bread from under his chequered green and black cloak. She looked at them. The items. The food -
The water.
She took them from him and felt as if more tears were to come,
“Thank you.”
She opened the skin and took a sip. It was like a blessing. As if one of The Seven had come down to her and gave it to her themselves as an acknowledgment -

“We know all the truths”.

They would sing.

“We know you are innocent”.

She was.
Wasn’t she?

“I don’t have much time, Ashara.” He said what she already knew. She didn’t want to accept that, however. She wanted him to stay forever. “There’s to be a trial. Beginning tomorrow. There will be a jury of seven sitting and watching - listening.”
Ashara wiped her mouth after swallowing the water,
“Who will sit on it?
“I’m not too sure. Prince Jaehaerys and Lord Hand for certain. I have heard that Lord Baratheon and Lord Tyrell will be on it as well. They are all arriving for it.”
“All of who?”
“All of everyone. The whole Seven fuckin’ Kingdoms by the looks.”
Ashara took a breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“Will my father sit in?” She asked.
“I am not sure. Likely not. Though I have received word from your mother that they are indeed coming. You should see them soon. I am sure they’ll ask to see you.”
“Did you ask?”
Ashara asked.
“No. I am… not supposed to be here. I paid the gaolar.”
“Renfred…”
“Look,” He started. “The trial will likely be long. Tedious. People will say things… I know they will. Things that… that are not true. That cannot be true. If you ever feel -”
He stopped.
He stared down into her eyes. “If you feel, at any point, that it is too much. That you do not stand a chance come verdict. You know that there are other options.”
“Other options?” She was confused.
“Trial By Combat, my lady. Your grace.” He said, “You know that I would… that I would never not fight for you. You know that I am good with a sword.”
She put her hand on his breast,
“I know, Ser Renfred. I know.”
“Keep it in mind.”
“I will.”
“No,” Renfred said. His voice filled with a mild sternness. “Keep it in mind. Promise.”
“I… I promise.”
Would it really come to that? A trial by combat? The evidence could not be as damning as that. Because there was no evidence. Except for her being in the same room as a murdered King.
Which,
She thought,
Was not the best of looks.

Not at all.

“Time’s up, boy.”

The gaolar shouted. Knocking on the door and dangling his keys in-front of the thin metal bars.

Ser Renfred looked back at the door and then again to her.
He clasped his hand around her face, holding her cheek. “Ashara…” He spoke. His voice ached. “I’m sorry.” He leaned in and put his lips against hers.
A kiss.
A kiss that lasted a moment.
A kiss that lasted the longest moment.
“Remember what I said.” He spoke when he pulled away.

And with that, he knocked against the door and the gaolar let him out. But not her. He closed it. Slammed shut. Locked, once more.
Renfred was free of the black cells.
Ashara was not.

And the kiss.

That kiss.

She had missed those lips.

Like she had missed the water.

And, rightly so, she took another sip.

QuirkyAngel · Jan 14, 2020

Lady Judyth Umber

Judyth nodded understandingly, her eyes following as the younger, dull-dressed, lady march bravely towards the Baratheons even before Judyth could offer lovely earrings, from among the merchantess's many wares, as well as complimentary ascessories--which had been her intended purpose for bringing up the topic in the first place. "We certainly will. I've simply got to show you the new wares I've obtained from Lys. Some lovely rugs that will certainly add some warmth to Harrenhal Castle as well."

She hadn't expected Amabel to go into battle unarmored. It was almost respectable, even. Without looking her best. With no family to back her. Without anything but her noble birth to her name. Even her house had been taken away from her by a bastard brother who Judyth could only assume got legitimized before the Blackwoods death - otherwise fighting for it was still possible.

A woman's claims versus a Bastard.

Even now, in these times, it was still hard to say who would win. Law was a touchy, fickle subject, depending on the ruler at time. Inheritance laws. Trading Laws. Criminal laws. A Westorosi woman in court was nothing without the support of her male relatives. Even more so if she had nothing to offer. Judyth had spoken to lords who would turn their nose up at a woman with no prospects. Promises made to the dead weren't necessarily binding. It was the king that made the laws. The fact that the King's Justice was going to be dealt before a King was chosen only went to show how little law actually mattered in the scheme of things. If the Baratheons were lesser men, they wouldn't take Amabel in.

But these were the same lords that turned away from court when a king had wronged them.

Honor was likely important to them. Therefore, Judyth believed Amabel Blackwood would be fine. Still. Lyanna was wise to follow along with her intended. Show that the Lady Blackwood still had the support of friends and fellows from the North. That was what she liked about Lyanna. The younger girl had a good head on her shoulders. Now that the crown was about to change hands, the North needed to stand united if they hoped to survive.

Judyth glanced over to where Skagg was helping his father, Horig, with the horses. Wildling blood though they may be, they had chosen to serve house Umber rather than die. It was a respectable choice in Judyth's mind. Skagg himself was a halfblood. The son of Bess, the maid, and a former free folk warrior. These were the men that would defend her Lord father. And it was her Lord father who was the first line of defense from any invaders that slipped beyond the wall. Thus letting the rich Lords of the south keep their riches. Now he had come down south to protect the Lord of the North, who he had sworn his allegience to, as well as the Northern party that came with him.

Not that Amabel was from the North. She frequently Winterfell, certainly, as Stark's cousin, but she was a daughter of the Riverlands. And soon she would join the Stormlands.

Probably.

Judyth smiled at the passing servant who offered her a wineglass and took the cup, letting Dornish Red slip down her throat. As expected of the Red Keep. Pricey wine. Judyth didn't intend to get drunk. It took a lot to get her drunk anyway. She just needed to wet her throat a little. She'd spent most of day with greetings and introductions thanks to Sera after all.

It was a miracle the girl was still talking.

Judyth half listen to her cousin chatter away, half watching the love drama that may or may not come to be. She'd been young and in love once. Therefore she didn't dislike watching young love unfold. Plus it told her alot about the people involved. Along with trust, the key of being a good merchant was knowing what the customer needed and being in the right place at the right time.

It wasn't until Sera mentioned the funds she'd spent clearing her sins that Judyth nearly choked on her wine.

"A Lady must be free of sins if she's to find a good husband. Should I show you to his Holiness? He would surely give you the Seven's blessings in that department."

Judith shook her head, dabbing her lips with a handkerchief. "I'm afraid not, Lady Sera. My family are followers of the Old Gods."

Fortunately.

The Sept was asking for money now? Good gods. The corruption in King's Landing was endless. Even though there weren't may trade laws, you'd think religion would at least remain untouched. Judyth shook her head. From the corner of her eye, she could see a her father giving a gold cloak a hard time and moved to intervene, barely taking a step forward, when she bumped into someone.

A child.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Little One." She bent down to see if the girl was alright. Years of taking care of her brothers had built a habit.

Septas followed after her, apologetic.

Sera whispered in Judyth's ear. Aerea Tyrell. The Hand's youngest daughter. Judyth glanced briefly at the Stark carriage before understanding lit her features. "Did you come to see your sister?"

Hypnos
(mentioned:

idalie

Mion )

ailurophile · Jan 14, 2020

Sylva Martell
The Fair

Her son's brashness was met with a genuine smile. Perhaps a different woman would've been mortified and scolded her son, but if she were to do that, where would she begin? In little more than a single breath, Tommen had mocked the late King's grieving brother for his handicap, and then advertised his mother and sister's eligibility to everyone within close proximity. But Sylva was not a different woman, she was herself, and so she was proud rather than outraged.

Whether they liked him or not, nobody would forget meeting Tommen. That was important.

"Very handsome indeed, petal." She murmured, keeping Mariya close to her as they followed Tommen. Her own eyes raked over the Baratheons, too. "They don't. But this is an important trial. I told you already, the world is changing. If there are Baratheons in the capital, nothing is impossible."

Sylva's smile was mischievous. She feared that Mariya was ill-prepared for the den of vipers they were about to enter, and hoped she hadn't realised that, yet. With any luck, the new sights and unfamiliar faces would be enough for her to fixate on, enough to distract her while Tommen deliberated the Arryn girl's fate and Sylva--

Well, while she took advantage of a world turned upside down.

"Prince Jaehaerys, as always, you're much too kind. How sweet of you to flatter an old hag." Sylva chuckled, her grip on her daughter remaining steady. She noticed the way she attracted the man's eyes: of course she did. Mariya was not only beautiful but had an edge that Sylva herself had played upon many times before.

She was something new, something a little different, just because she'd been cooped up for so long. While Sylva had the fire of the Dornish to add to her appeal, Mariya was shrouded in mystery. It was all too perfect.

"It's a terrible business, I wish we could have seen one another in a better climate. I'm sorry for your loss."

How many times had Jaehaerys heard that condolence in one day alone, she wondered.
Would it be the same for her, when she lost her mother?
With that sudden train of thought, she cast a searching gaze over Jaehaerys. Had he, like her, ever secretly wished for the death of a beloved relative, and then been stricken with guilt over the very idea?

Had he wept for his fallen brother, but smiled for the empty throne?

She swallowed and pulled herself back to reality. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Being back at court was a shock to the system, when Sylva was so used to her own ways. To the Baratheons, she offered a nod, a smile, an innocuous greeting. Then she fell into a woman's place in the outskirts of the conversation along with Mariya, and listened keenly to the mention of the jury.

Because taking a backseat when appropriate allowed her to gain a better insight into matters, without ever divulging too much on her part. The people of court were liars, manipulators, and cheats. Sylva was much more than that.

ailurophile · Jan 14, 2020

Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess

Though her brief encounter with Guy had helped, Rhaenyra still felt cornered. The walls were still closing in, the floor warped beneath her light footsteps, the windows felt few and far between.

She wandered, trying to calm herself down, trying to stop Jaehaerys' words ricocheting about her gilded head.

Cheer me on.
Cheer me on as I rule.

The people were fickle, and they'd agreed on that. But Jaehaerys, no matter his charming words and wit and elevated status, was human too. Just as fickle as the common folk they looked upon with scorn and apathy. For now, he was willing to keep her in her position, take care of her, and yet there was no guarantee that that courtesy would last. Their family was rapidly decreasing in number, but it only took one of them to have their heir and continue their dynasty.

It only took one.
If Rhaenyra was in Jaehaerys' position, she didn't think she could guarantee she wouldn't at least consider... removing the threat.

Her aimless steps took her to the kitchens. She exchanged a few pleasant words with the staff, accepting condolences and basking in the idea they'd missed her. As a child, she'd spent quite a lot of time here, wiling away the hours, getting underfoot, trying to weave her way into a community. A family, not a conventional one, but better than the one she had. These were good people.

Surely not as fickle as the others.

When she left, she did so with a small parcel encased in fabric, and a new sense of purpose. Finally, she knew what she needed to do, and the halls did not seem to stretch on endlessly anymore. Rhaenyra walked alone, with nothing but her thoughts for company. Alone, the way she had been throughout her childhood.

Alone, just like Ashara Arryn in her cell.

It was Ashara that Rhaenyra headed for. Shortly before she arrived, she bumped into Ser Renfred, and exchanged a knowing glance, and a smile. Sympathy, even. He must be going through so much, and actually seeing Ashara in her current state would put that into raw perspective.

She wondered if it would do the same for her.

Naturally, she did not encounter much resistance when she reached the door. In fact, the Gaolar dipped his head in greeting.

"I'd like to speak with her in private, if you would be so kind. Closure, you understand?"
"I get it. But fo' security--"
"I'll be fine." Rhae smiled again, thinly. "It's not as though she's armed in there. Take a break, my good man."

He did without any further protest, and Rhaenyra slipped through into the cell. She approached the accused silently, her expression unreadable, and crouched not too far away. Brushing her pool of skirts aside, she set the package down on the floor between them and carefully unfolded the frayed material of the napkin to reveal her offering.

Lemon bars.

"Please, eat."

TheFool

RayPurchase · Jan 14, 2020

Lord Ormund Baratheon
The Coming Storm

Ormund almost smiled. Almost. If he had heard anything of Jaehaerys it had been that whilst the body was weak, the mind within it burnt brighter than most. The tourney had been at the Crag, not Bitterbridge. And given the Crag being under the rule of the Westerling family, it did not take a savant to work out Jaehaerys why he was swinging the conversation. It had been the Westerling Queen that had shattered the Baratheon/Targaryen tie. Well if the stories of infidelity were to be believed.

He found himself meeting the eyes of the Prince, was there anything in those depths, a hint of sorrow perhaps. Whether it was genuine was another question altogether. When the King was alive and Ormund was just a stewing Lordling shut up in his castle, then they could just ignore him and get on with the status quo, allow the storm clouds to gather and dissipate, farm from danger. But now the throne was empty, and the jostling was soon to begin. Why else would the Prince be here, meeting and greeting the Lords like some sort of jumped up innkeeper. It was all about gathering his pieces, and whispering honeyed words. The dance had already begun.

“Justice… indeed isn’t that what we have all come seeking today? Justice in one form or another?”

He would have made a withdrawal at that point, the lingering venom allowed to seep into place. However this was quashed, and hard. Despite having Fish as his sigil, Tully would have been better served adopting the Elephant, sharing all of the grace and tactfulness of one as he planted his banner on the ground before attempting to force his mother into one of their beds. Jon had already refused the hand. Wise move, leaving it for him. It was times like this that he was sure behind the blunt nature there was a deviousness to his brother. He grasped Tully’s hand firmly, perhaps firmer than was necessary. No, definitely firmer than was necessary.

“Yes, I’m sure you are quite charmed,"

It really did seem as though several lords were using the event as an excuse to get their entire extended families down to the Capital. For a supposed trial this was turning into a circus, and one that Ormund was getting more and more impatient to vacate. The noises and crowds, young lords dressed as perfumed whores in all their finery. His time in the relative solace of Storm’s End had perhaps had more of an effect on him that he had first thought. The crowds and endless pleasantries, he could feel his leg beginning to shake, his foot tapping the floor in exasperation as yet more introductions were made. Tullys, Martells, the list went on. The Tully girl looked like she was about to die of fright, like a rabbit caught in the hypnotic gaze of the hawk. The boy was eccentric to say the least, and the girl was a waif. Ysabel would have been able to take on the pair with her hands tied behind her back.

"Well I shall leave you to your greeting duties, Prince Jaehaerys, I'm sure there will be plenty of time for discussions and conversation. I feel there will be little time devoted to sleep tonight. My ladies,"

Dipping his head in the direction of the Tully girl and matriarch of the family, and making his escape. Alas it appeared that he was trapped in this forsaken courtyard with the arrival of another figure. The Blackwood girl. By the seven he had near enough forgotten about her. A fine match for Jon. It had been agreed, heir to the Blackwood title with the death of her family, it would have bought them a powerful futuee ally in the Riverlands, the Baratheons of Raventree Hall eventually. The Stormlands would be secure through his own inevitable offspring, and Jon would sire a new offshoot to the north. It may have taken a bit of forceful persuasion, but he and his father had been willing to put in the effort to secure Raventree Hall. Now her bastard brother ruled, and all she brought to the table was a name steeped in history, and there were more than enough of those going around these days. However with more recent events overtaking him, he had allowed the situation to go on unchallenged. He just managed a curt bow of his head as she approached, salutations and greetings already departing her lips.

"Lady Blackwood."

An odd choice of clothing as well, appearing as some sort of… crow was it?

"My condolences for the passing of your late parents and siblings. I'm afraid conversation and pleasantries will have to wait until certain duties have been seen to,"

He glanced at his brother but remained silent. Whether he chose to remain with her now or not was his decision, either way the match would have to be dissected and re-examined, especially with recent events. His younger brother was not just an individual he could rely on, but a handy tool in forging bonds which could make or break them. Pulling his cloak about him he stalked from the courtyard and into the Keep. Leaving the Lords and Ladies to continue their seemingly never ending introductions and small talk. The absence of one man in particular spoke volumes, arguably the most powerful man in King's Landing, the hand without a King.

(Interaction:

ailurophile · Jan 14, 2020

Lewyn
The Late
(NPC)

He'd failed.

After being chosen as the one to travel to King's Landing and shoulder the morbid responsibility that nobody wanted to bear, Lewyn had been waylaid. He'd always been a man plagued with carnal desire, and it seemed not even tragedy could suppress those urges. He'd reached the capital almost three days ago, preparing to intercept the unknowingly bereaved arrivals the moment they appeared, but things hadn't played out that way.

Surely he couldn't be blamed. Had anyone seen the beauty that populated an inn known simply as the Honeypot, they'd be distracted too. He'd been trapped, like a scavenging fly in said honey.

Besides, it was the Day of the Dove.

But he was ready to deliver his message now, and that was the important part. Nobody would know that he had to take Sylva Martell aside from her conversation instead of meet her alone, or only accompanied by her children. He didn't even acknowledge the other nobles, there was no point. Lewyn hadn't come to charm the members of King's Landing's court.

No, he'd come to bring news of a new court that was blooming.

"My Princess."

Though he'd only just begun, the title was enough.

"No," Sylva's brow furrowed as she drew Lewyn closer to her, so close he could see the little flecks of gold that rimmed her irises. "Tell me. Tell me."

"I'm so sorry that I have to be the one to tell you. Princess Jennelyn's health deteriorated rapidly a short while ago." Lewyn's heart was heavy with the burden of the truth. He was at a loss for words, despite having rehearsed so many times on the journey. All he could manage was a simple offering:

"My condolences."

Sylva Martell was beautiful even in her grief. Her hand flew to her mouth, and those gold-speckled eyes watered with tears. She took a moment, running through the bereavement and its connotations in her mind. Finally, she took a breath, and brushed a single tear from her cheek.

"Thankyou. I appreciate the difficulty of this news. I will return once I have ensured my daughter's health and provided support to my son throughout the upcoming trial."

Lewyn nodded. She was a woman of duty, so many more duties, now. He bowed.

And he watched as the new Princess of Dorne returned to her children and draw her daughter from the crowd.

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TheFool

TheFool · Jan 15, 2020

Hunger

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen had come to pay her a visit.

Bearing gifts.

Rectangular little lemon bars. Not particularly Ashara’s favourite, but she had no say in saying no. A beggar could never be a chooser. Even if that beggar happened to be The Queen. Well, she likely did not hold that title anymore. Especially with her husband being…

She stared at the bars.
Approaching slowly, like a cat might approach a stranger.

Rhaenyra was very much that.

Her step-daughter, though the silver haired girl was several years Ashara’s elder. Something that they both always found strange, no? Age aside, they had never gotten on. Rhaenyra had a reputation for being, well, a brat. Like most Princesses, she was spoiled.
Even though the man who spoiled her was rarely in her life, Ashara thought. In all her time as Lucerys’ wife, she only saw him every so oft.
And,
He always visited his wives more than he did his daughter.

That much was known.

“What do you want?” Ashara asked, her voice still hoarse. Her eyes looking dead at Rhaenyra. And at those treats. The smell was…

Her nostrils hungered for a proper whiff.

Her belly gurgled a low moan, yearning. Starving. She cursed herself as she heard the noise. A part of her did not want Rhaenyra to know that she was struggling. Though, of course, who wouldn’t struggle down in the black cells? That was a stupid want.

She eyed the cakes.

Could they be poison?

Could she, The Princess, be forgoing the trial? Dispensing her own punishment towards the woman who supposedly murdered her sweet father. Her own justice.
Ashara would take a bite,
And begin frothing.

She could see it.

Even in the blackness.

“Why have you… come here?” Ashara rephrased her previous question. She did not wish to sound rude. Though being uncouth was most definitely the least of her many worries.

ailurophile

ailurophile · Jan 15, 2020

Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess

It was not a surprise that Ashara didn't immediately take a cake from Rhaenyra. They'd never been friends, even though they were of a similar age, and lived in such close proximity. Rhaenyra had never been willing to show her any affection, offer any slivers of friendship, still mourning the late Lynora Westerling.

Ashara had taken her place but she was not the same.
An innocent, pure girl, so sweet that it was cloying.
Not like Lynora, with her bold remarks and promiscuity.

Yet Rhaenyra still wondered why her gift was not readily and gratefully accepted. She studied Ashara's face for a moment, until it hit her.
She was afraid. Suspicious, even. Wondering if perhaps the offering was a sugar-coated execution.

Thinking that Rhaenyra could be a murderer.

Instead of replying immediately, she swept the top bar from the pile, and took a pointed bite. As she chewed and swallowed, she kept her gaze locked with Ashara's in a twisted version of reassurance. The pastry was sweet and tart at the same time, different to Guy's apple tarts. She wasn't sure which she preferred.

No matter how delicious the lemon bar, the situation made every bite turn to ash in her mouth.

"Why wouldn't I come?" Rhaenyra offered the package again, raising an eyebrow. "I wanted to talk to you, before the trial. I find that people tend to be much more open when they aren't performing for an audience."

An edge to her voice, there, but her expression was unreadable.

"You don't need to pretend to be so devoted now. Tell me the truth: you hated my father."

Rhaenyra took another bite. When she swallowed, she smiled, and licked sugar from her fingertips.

"I hated him too."

TheFool

TheFool · Jan 15, 2020

Hunger

She watched her.

She watched as she masticated the cake, it turning to yellow mush in her mouth. What if that was the only one untainted by poison, Ashara thought to herself. The only bar baked with another batch. An ordinary batch. What if this was a game?
A ploy.
The others may’ve been what she so feared.

Ashara took a step back.
Thinking.

What did she fear exactly? She feared for her life - and the life of her son. The babe she only knew but for a little while. She feared for the lives of her family. Her mother and her father and her grandmother and Uncle Ethan and Hugh.
Her life was but one.
And these lemon cakes would only end one life.

She stepped forward and took one.

Quickly biting into it.

The tangy zest almost stinging her dry tongue. It hurt. The flavours. But only for a moment. For after the hurt, came the delight. The absolute delight.
She felt its goodness.
So much so that she did not care if that goodness was followed by demise.

She chewed.
And chewed.
And chewed.

Listening to the chewing. And to Princess Rhaenyra’s words.

“Thank you.”
Ashara said, quietly.

She stopped chewing when Rhaenyra said what she did.

Ashara wiped her mouth with her wrist and took another step back. There was a circle tangled around Rhaenyra, and it was menacing. Ashara wished to be as far away from her as she possibly could be. But one could not get far in this cell of hers.
A metre or two at most.

“I’m not pretending anything.”
She began,
“Princess.” Ashara added the formality at the end.

“What is it you would like to hear, your grace?” She asked, trying to be careful with her words. Any slip up could be used against her surely. “Your father… was my husband. A wife loves their husband. Unconditionally. Don’t you agree? I would never… never…”

She stopped.

“If it’s a plea of guilt you’re looking for, Rhaenyra, you won’t get one. How I felt about your father aside, I am not… I am not a murderer. I did not kill him. I did not ask someone to kill him for me. I am not a beast. I’m just… I’m just…” She stopped, once more.
She could feel tears.

Do not cry, she told herself. Do not.

“I’m just a girl… a girl who just wants to leave this place and go home - very much.”

ailurophile

TheFool · Jan 15, 2020

Trout

Prince Jaehaerys was most handsome.

The most handsome.

Even with his… disability, she admired him. His silver locks, which looked freshly cut and washed. His eyes - a similar brown to her mother’s. She had heard so many stories of The Targaryens and their violet coloured eyes, which was why, maybe, Jaehaerys stood out even more to her.

Soon,

The Baratheons said their “goodbyes”. She curtsied once more. Making sure not to go too low as to hurt her back. She watched them as they walked away, the tall one especially. He, too, was handsome. Handsome in a more brutish way.
He reminded her of the stableboy at Riverrun.
Though Jon Barratheon likely had more wit to him than young Haybale Tom.

Her mother was then approached by a man Mariya had never seen before.
A courier?
They went off together so to speak privately.

Mariya was left with her brother and Jaehaerys in the bustling courtyard.

“I am sorry for your loss, your grace.”
She managed to say.

He smiled at her.

A sad smile.

One that made her want to tell him a joke - so to cheer him up. Though Mariya Tully did not know any good jokes. At least none that no one but her and the girls back at Riverrun would find funny.

“Thank you, my lady. And I am sorry for yours. Lord Edmyn was a man I always inspired to emulate.”

The Prince’s words touched her, sweetly.

“I… miss him dearly.”
Her reply.
Jaehaerys looked into her eyes. She knew he understood her mourning.

Her mother returned, tears in her eyes. The eyes that were so like Jaehaerys’. Sylva took Mariya’s arms and gently pulled her close,

“M-Mother?”
Mariya was confused. Her chest tingling with a burn. She almost began crying then and there, only because her mother was. “Whatever is the m-matter?” She asked, cupping her mother’s cheek with her frail dainty fingers.

ailurophile

Braddington
Me, The Handsome Prince

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Yahhah ( Sort Of )

ailurophile · Jan 15, 2020

Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess

The formality of the title was unexpected. Rhaenyra had not used any herself.

She smiled.

"You needn't call me anything but Rhaenyra. If you go about with anything else, then I've been terribly rude. You're my Queen, are you not?" Her words seemed innocent enough, but as she settled into a sitting position on the floor, looking around the grime and gloom of their surroundings, the ice in her tone returned. "Though I suppose you aren't, here. Accused takes precedence. Which makes you nobody's queen."

A pause.
"Or, perhaps, only Queen of all you survey."

With that, she broke a lemon bar in half, and offered one of the pieces to Ashara. Her expression changed, as though reacting to the other girl's.

"I didn't mean that to sound so awful. I only meant that titles don't seem to matter here. I'll be Rhae, and you can be Ash."

As she listened to Ashara's earnest pleas to be believed, Rhaenyra picked at her cake, if only to avoid looking at the sight before her. Though she resented it, Ashara's words knotted her stomach and created a foreign pang in her chest. But she couldn't tell if it was sympathy that she was feeling, or...

Jealousy.

Because the girl was yearning for her home. Her home, a familiar place, a warm place, with a family who loved her and would readily accept her. It must be strange, she mused, to have a home outside of the Red Keep.

The Dragon's Lair.

And that jealousy boiled inside of her. A small part of her wanted to grab Ashara by the hair and slam her stupid, lovely, innocent face into the dark brick of the wall. Her brow furrowed as she continued to dissect the lemon bar, slender fingers burrowing into the soft flesh, crumbs spilling onto her skirts to be forgotten.

Cast aside.
Cheer me on.

Rhaenyra looked up, at last. "I'm not interested in a confession, or a lack thereof. That isn't why I came. I just wanted to speak with you, to have a conversation, before the whole of the Seven Kingdoms is trying to have one with you."

She ran her tongue over her lips. "We're family, in a way. But I don't know you."

Not enough.

"And you don't know me."

TheFool

TheFool · Jan 15, 2020

Hunger

She listened.

Carefully.

Digesting each and every word that came out of Rhaenyra’s mouth, like she was digesting the lemony treat. Ashara felt the tears retract themselves, holding in for a bit longer. Thank The Seven. She did not want to look weak. She had proclaimed that she was still only a girl, yes.
A little girl.
But that proclamation would only become truer if accompanied by her tears.

“What is it like out there?” She asked.
Pretending like Ser Renfred had not already told her of the fact that everyone who was anyone had arrived for her. For the trial. “Have you… seen my mother?”
“My father?”

She took another bite of the bar.
Taking in its candied poison.

Ashara strangely found herself smiling for a second at Rhaenyra’s words. The Princess would simply be Rhae and she would simply be Ash. Something she always wanted them to be.

“Rhae.”

She whispered.

“I… I am sorry we’re talking like this under these circumstances.” Ash spoke, “I always… I always wanted for you and I to be something. It didn’t have to friends or to be best friends but… I wanted us to talk more. To laugh at one another now and then.”

She held the bar to her lips.
Neglecting it in her thought.

“Forgive me for not trying.”

ailurophile

Yahhah · Jan 17, 2020

Jon Baratheon

Jon stood still as a statue listening to the lords and ladies speak around him. In truth he was getting tired of standing around talking, Jon had never been one for speaking. He listened as Ormund spoke to the prince, well he half listened and half studied the courtyard. The number of banners seemed to be growing by the minute as more lords appeared. He noticed the trout bring his mother and sister over and felt the sister's eyes on him. Jon ignored that. As Ormund turned and began to walk away Jon started to follow him but was suddenly reminded of something that had slipped his mind. A woman had entered the scene. Dressed in a black dress and cloak Lady Blackwood had appeared. Jon's betrothed, the match had been put together before the Baratheons had estranged themselves from the other kingdoms, at the time of the match Jon had not been pleased though then he had been younger and even more headstrong then he was today. He did have to say she was quite a beautiful woman. Jon reached up and removed his antlered helmet. He nodded politely to Amabel.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Blackwood".

He said not giving off his signature gruffness for once. He held his helmet to his side, unsure of what to do for a moment but he quickly composed himself and turned to follow his brother. He would have time to discuss the issue of their betrothal at another time, when he wasn't surrounded by prying ears and honing knives.

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dendygar

Ser Garth Florent

At the Lord Commander's order Garth gave a nod of acknowledgement and moved to leave the room. He supposed he would stand sentry around the keep, with no king to guard Garth had found it hard to find ways to take up his time besides making sure his skill with the blade stayed sharp. He made his way down the halls, brooding about this and that while making sure to keep a sharp eye on his surroundings. Making sure no thieves or schemers had snuck into the keep amid all the chaos, of course all seemed quiet for the time being, so Garth was mostly left to his own thoughts. Thoughts of the future and other uncertain things.

Braddington · Jan 18, 2020

Tommen Tully

Had he scared them all off? They did seem to drop off like flies one by one into the background. Not that he particularly minded. He wasn’t here to talk to stags and they weren’t here to talk to him. No, they were here to get married evidently. A noble affair, he was sure, and what a time to pursue it. Maybe he could send them a present for the occasion. Still, even as Sylva and then Mariya left he couldn’t help but think this was all orchestrated like some grand Lyseni play. Now he was alone with Jaehaerys.

Alone.

As no doubt he was.

He looked towards his friend, his fake charismatic smile fading into one of sadness.

“How did we get here, eh? One minute it’s all sunshine and sands, the next ...Lucerys is gone, Edymn...gone.”

A joke ...that's how he ended these sentences, right? Something stupid?

“And then all of a sudden everyone comes up to say how handsome you are. Are they blind or something?”

There it is.

“Let’s go somewhere else. I don’t like the way Lord Hayford is looking at me.”

He began to walk, slowly as to not give added pressure to the Prince after what was no doubt a relentless day of walking and climbing. The politics of death and the exhaustion that came with it.

His eyes scanned the man, was he changed since he last saw him? Mayhaps. There was something more on his face. Sadness? Determination? Whatever it was, he could sympathise.

“Do you...remember back in Dorne?”

He began.

“Uncle Mors? When he caught us sawing down trees in the Water Garden? He looked at us like we were crazed. “Why would you do that?!?” He asked.”

Tommen smiled slightly.

“We didn’t have an answer, of course. Why did we do anything?”

An eyebrow perked up.

“Because we wanted to. We were just kids. We didn’t know what those trees meant, we didn’t know the symbol that garden stood for. If we wanted to splash a courtier we would, if we wanted to saw down a tree, what was the harm? He understood that.”

His face narrowed into something of a snarl.

“I remember looking over. Looking over at some...witch I thought. A Fowler, maybe. It didn’t matter. Only the look she gave did. She judged us. She judged every word, every movement.”

He swallowed.

“She judged us. And she was right to. I thought about that look for weeks. What did it mean? Why did she care? Then I remembered we weren’t kids anymore. We were teenagers. I was the heir to Riverrun, you were a Prince. Titles suddenly mattered and how we acted mattered with it.”

His face shook as if trying to remove the look it displayed.

“I never went back into those gardens again. I couldn’t handle their eyes anymore. They weren’t loving, they weren’t playful. They were cold. They were hard. They burrowed and burrowed until they carved out a vision of what we were. What kind of people we would grow up to be.”

He stopped at Jaehaerys chambers. Or at least what he hoped were his chambers.

“I tried for years to adapt. I had finally thought I had.”

He opened the door with a loud creak.

“Then, Edmyn died.”

God's rest you, old man.

“I finally learnt as they all looked at me again. That moment I arrived in Riverrun. That yeah, I had adapted. I’m a teenager now. Immature, stupid. Hormonal even.”

His legs took him inside.

“But an adult? Not even close.”

He wanted to say something. But he stuttered at every word. His eyes filling with water as the door closed behind them.

“I don't know how to handle it, Jae. I don’t know what to do.”

TheFool

Hypnos · Jan 18, 2020

Myrielle

Was he crying, or was it just the rain?

Eustace Arryn had always been a weak man, flimsy, and frail. He was just as like to lose a fight to a strong wind as he was to any man, and as the years went on, the spark of their marriage had grown dimmer and dimmer.

But he cared.

She would give him that.

Begrudgingly.

‘I’m sure the horses will enjoy their food and quarter whilst our only daughter rots with neither in the Black Cells.’ It was not Eustace’s fault that they could not ride continuously for the capital. Nor was her husband to blame for the circumstances in which their daughter found herself in, but Myri would lash out nonetheless.

It was easy. Easier than thinking about Ashara and easier than contemplating her own role in her daughter’s imprisonment.

And Eustace would take it. He always took it. For the falcon was always in the shadow of a lion.

‘Do not silence me, husband dearest! Is that how a man treats his wife.’ She might have slapped him if he were not on horseback, just to make a show of it, but right now he was just out of her reach. Not that she didn’t have other ways to get to him.

‘Your bleeding heart will not open any doors, nor will it bring my daughter back to me. They haven’t even invited you to sit the jury Eustace! Every great Lord in the realm, and you are the exception.’

Another thing for which Eustace bore little blame. Another dagger which Myri would slide into his back. She was being needlessly cruel, they both knew it, but at the moment she felt that her anger was justified. Mistargeted but justified.

‘They have my daughter in chains. Your daughter. And yet we slink into the city with our heads held low? They mock you behind closed doors. They mock us! Yet you do nothing but prove them right. You should be marching in there with sword drawn, demanding our little girl back!’

Myrielle continued to huff.

Eustace just sat there.

She bore into him with her eyes, but she knew that she wasn’t going to get a rise out of him. Not now. Not whilst he was like this.

The Lannister sighed, exhaling gently.

‘She’s our daughter Eustace. Our only daughter.’ A change of tact. A change of strategy. ‘They’ve got her, and they wont let her go.’

The rain had picked up now, from a gentle drizzle, to a more vicious spit, the ground muddying underneath their feet.

This time it was Eustace who had to guess whether they were tears.

‘Bring her back, Eustace. By the Seven, you have to bring her back.’

TheFool

dendygar · Jan 18, 2020

The Raven

She was going to try to have a conversation with the man that she was supposed to marry, hopefully getting to maybe know a quick one or two things about him.. but before she could even get more than another word out, he was turning and walking away. The two stared at each other briefly, awkwardly, having no idea what to say..

And then, he was gone.

Amabel could feel herself deflating, her eyes softening and then she closed them. Her shoulders relaxed and she wanted to hang her head, but she knew that other people would notice. She was banking on the two of them getting married, she needed this to go through. Because if she didn't, it was likely that she would never be wed. Amabel turned and watched after him, biting her lower lip and furrowing her brows. He was tall, and he certainly was handsome.. she hoped that he found her easy on the eyes as well. Amabel then heard familiar voices, and the Raven turned and saw Lyanna and Dorren quickly walking towards her. She furrowed her dark brows in confusion and swiftly moved towards them, her dark skirts whooshing around her feet. "Why do you two look so concerned?" She asked and brushed off her skirts, as if they were dirty.

Yarrow · Jan 18, 2020

Marq Grafton

Marq Grafton wandered through the city. He was sided by his son Symond and squire Jon Melcolm. Marq knew the harbor of King's Landing very well, the center of the city not so well. Whenever Marq had some free time, he took a trip to the harbor of King's Landing. He loved sailing. Marq came to the city to find a Knight who would want to squire his son. With the upcoming trial many lords and knights were in the capital. Maybe his son could squire a few years for Tygett Lannister or someone else.

"Did you know the king?" Marq was in deep thoughts when his son asked the question

"Not that well" Marq answered "Met him a few times, but didn't spoke to the man, we are not interesting enough for him" Marq continued

"Why not? We are the Lords from Gulltown" Symond replied. Jon Melcolm laughed "You have much to learn young man"

"But we rule over Gulltown?" Symon attested.

"We do indeed, but Gulltown is nothing compared to King's Landing or Old Town" Marq answered. "If we get Lord Lannister to agree that you can be his squire you can see Lannisport and you will notice that it is bigger than our city"

"Yes, but luckily for the Lannisters of Lannisport, they don't have rebelling cadet branches, my Lord" Jon Melcolm commented.

Marq Grafton grimaced "Indeed, the Arryn's of Gulltown have been a pain in our arse these last few years"

The Arryn's of Gulltown, together with the Shetts of Gulltown, and maybe even house Royce to some extent, were steadily trying to undermine the position of the Graftons.

"Yes, when are you going to do something about that Dad?" Symon asked

"So many questions from you today" Jon sighed

"Hush Jon" Marq grinned "That is also a reason why we are here" They drove through the gates of the Red Keep. At the courtyard he noticed many different banners.

@people at the courtyard

ailurophile · Jan 19, 2020

Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess

"I haven't been out there today," Rhaenyra admitted.

A small part of her wished that she had, and that she could offer Ashara some sliver of comfort.
That surprised her.

She brushed it off and tried to listen with indifference, but Ashara's words stirred in her chest. Perhaps they were more similar than either cared to admit, wanting a friend within these walls, somebody to confide in and relate to. Of course, Rhaenyra had Tyana, but it wasn't quite the same. The Kettleblack bastard didn't know the struggles of court, or how it felt to be treated the way Lucerys had treated his family. She didn't care to listen to Rhae's laments.

Something told her that Ashara would have.
Or would have at least tried to sympathise.

"It's not your fault. I didn't try either. I hated you."
The truth, though blunt, was somehow not malicious. It was matter-of-fact, simple, quick. A confirmation of what Ashara likely already knew, or had at least guessed. But Rhaenyra elaborated nonetheless, to fill the silence and the darkness if nothing else.
"You weren't my mother, and you weren't Lynora. My father paid you more attention in a week than he paid me in a year. Was I supposed to watch that without feeling any resentment?"

Her gaze dropped and her brow furrowed and her teeth buried into her lower lip.

"I may be a bitch, Ashara, but I'm human."

The confession of vulnerability hung in the air between them, and neither woman addressed it for a few moments. Rhae got there first, her head snapping up to reveal that she was smiling.

"You said you wanted us to laugh at one another, fine. When I was a little girl, I used to write my own plays. I loved drama, you see. I'd stand outside whichever room my father was in and perform these great monologues to nobody, in case he'd overhear and come to congratulate me, or be so moved by the subtext that he'd throw open the door and apologise for the way he'd been acting and tell me I was wonderful."

Her voice cracked, sorrow shining through her laughter.

"Isn't that funny?" She asked. "Isn't that funny, Ash?"

TheFool

Fandom ♛ Liar's Court ♛ - A Game Of Thrones RP

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